


Port in a Storm

by blackcoffeeandteardrops



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s11e05 Ghouli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcoffeeandteardrops/pseuds/blackcoffeeandteardrops
Summary: A post ep of sorts for Ghouli. Mulder, Scully, and William have a long overdue conversation.





	Port in a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Technically in the same universe as my last fic, which was also a Ghouli post-ep, but it's not necessary to read that one first. Also, honestly? If season eleven ends anything close to this (or better), I'll 100% take it.

When Scully wakes up she stares up into the inky darkness, blinking a few times as her eyes adjust. She glances to her left, noting how soundly Mulder is sleeping, but she can’t shake the feeling that there’s been a subtle shift. Something’s happened, and she’s not sure what.

_Click._

She sits up, letting the blanket fall to the bed. Downstairs, Dagoo is barking, an odd thing to happen in the middle of the night.

_Click._

Her hand reaches out for the gun on her bedside table, gripping it tightly while blindly reaching across the bed to shake Mulder awake.

“S’matter?” he says, his words bleeding together as he snakes an arm around her waist, desperate to pull her back into the warmth of the blankets.

“Someone’s here, Mulder,” she whispers, hearing the clicking noise again, followed by a definite rattling sound.

They’re both at the door of their room, walking down the hallway like a solid unit, stopping once they reach the stairs. At the bottom, they can view someone clearly standing there, though their features aren’t visible.

“Put your hands where I can see them,” Mulder says, steadying his gun. He’s trained enough to make it count, but he’s hoping he doesn’t have to. The figure spins towards them, doing as asked, and all the while Dagoo circles their feet, clearly interested in the situation. “I’m armed, you want to tell me--”

“Please don’t shoot,” the figure says, slowly stepping forward. “I can explain.”

The voice is one they’ve heard thousands of times, and it’s one that causes Scully’s head to spin. How many times had they stayed up and replayed that video in recent weeks? How many times had they stared at their son’s face, searching for anything new they hadn’t seen the other times? “Mulder, wait,” she says, lowering her own gun and reaching for Mulder’s hands in an attempt to get him to lower his.

“There’s a light switch to your right. Turn it on,” Mulder says, and his voice shakes just a little, betraying the anxiety he’s feeling.

“Okay,” the boy says, flipping the switch as asked. The room is lit up, but he removes the hood of his jacket, smiling weakly as he does so. “Hey.”

Standing at the foot of the stairs is William. Not the pickup artist, or any other iteration he could have concocted, but him. For so long, they wondered what had become of him, and had been cruelly met by the image of him on a table in the morgue. The interaction at the gas station had lifted their spirits, if only slightly, but none of it could have prepared them for him showing up in the middle of the night, clearly disheveled, and without preamble. “Hi.”

Mulder looks between mother and son, knowing someone has to break the silence, and figuring it might as well be him. “Why don't we sit down? Do you want something to eat?”

William shakes his head, wiping at the water droplets on his sleeves, and shrugs his shoulders. “Water? I’m not hungry.”

Mulder takes his time walking to the kitchen, afraid that once he leaves the room, their son will disappear and it all will be a dream.

Slowly, Scully moves from her position on the stairs and points to the sofa. “Do you want to sit down?” she asks William, echoing Mulder's question from moments before. She hovers, watching as William settles on the edge of the couch, and as much as she wants to run over and feel physical proof that he's real, she also doesn't want to scare him off.

Mulder breaks the stalemate by entering the room and handing the younger man a water bottle. He hands Scully one as well before unscrewing the cap on his own, instinctively sensing that this will be a long night.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” William says, staring at the ground. He kicks at the carpet and opens his water, taking several large gulps before continuing to speak. “I didn't mean to get here so late, but the storm was getting bad, so it held me back. And then when I did get here, I didn't want to just wait--”

“It's okay,” Scully says, carefully sitting next to him and placing a hand on his arm, at long last bridging the distance. “We're glad you're here. A little surprised, but glad.”

“Where have you been?” Mulder asks, hating that he has to but knowing it's a question going through Scully's mind as well.

“I headed west, after…” William stops, fumbling to find words. He fiddles with the wrapper on the water bottle, rolling a piece back and forth with his thumb. “I stayed in Tennessee for a while before heading back east. I missed the ocean. Is that weird?” he asked, not really expecting a response. “Anyway, I went to Georgia. I don't know why. I just--”

“You were born there,” Scully says, memories flashing from so long ago, and she fights to remain composed at the look of surprise on his face.

William nods, taking a factoid about his history in. Their eyes are glued on him, but he doesn't feel watched or studied, not like the countless times he's been in labs and doctor's offices over the years. Still, they're waiting, figuratively putting the ball in his court, so he knows he has to say something. “I’m sorry,” he says, forcing the words out through a throat that feels dry despite the water. He locks eyes with Scully and tries not to feel startled. The woman he's seen in dreams, and briefly when he'd disguised himself, but this is different and he knows that. “I shouldn't have scared you like that. I could've found another way, I guess. But I was scared, and--”

“It's okay,” Scully tells him, flexing her fingers out to touch him again and stopping at the last second. If she pushes too much too soon she's afraid he'll bolt.

Mulder catches her eye and nods, crossing his arms as he settles into the couch. They've gotten good at the whole nonverbal communication thing, but he knows they'll have to voice it for the other person in the room. “You did what you had to do to stay safe. And you're here now, that's what matters.”

William shrugs, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. He's had the whole drive to prepare for this moment, for seeing his birth parents, but now that they're both here he doesn't know what to say. He looks to Scully, sitting expectantly, and then to Mulder on his other side. He's pinned between them but he doesn't feel trapped, which he figures is a good sign. “This isn't weird for you?”

“Maybe a little,” Scully concedes, not missing the subtle way his shoulders relax a little, betraying his relief at her admission. “William...Jackson, I mean--”

“You don't have to call me that,” William interrupts. He swallows hard, picturing the parents who raised him, who never asked for a kid who can see and do things no one can explain. They loved him, he knows this, and they tried their best. Still, the sounds of them crying out before being shot have been burned into his brain, and he struggles to keep his eyes open, for fear of seeing their lifeless bodies when he closes them. “That's not who I am anymore. You guys--” he pauses, coughing to clear his throat. “You named me William. Didn't you?”

“We did,” Scully tells him, smiling sadly. It's strange; as much as she's looked forward to seeing him again, the words don't seem to be flowing out as quickly as she might have hoped.

“Should we tell him about the number of individuals in both of our families sidled with the same name?” Mulder asks, trying to add humor to the situation.

“Seriously?” William asks, laughing in the first time in days.

“That's tough talk from someone named Fox, Mulder,” Scully says, propping her arm on the back of the couch and angling herself towards them.

“Fox? Really?” William echoes, quirking an eyebrow as he turns to look at Mulder.

It's a look so similar to ones Scully's given him before that it takes Mulder a minute to recover. Their son--their flesh and blood--is sitting here between them like it's the most normal thing in the world. He unfurls his fingers from where they'd been resting on his knee, stretching them out a bit as he speaks. “What can I say? It's true.”

There's so many things William wants to know, so many questions to be asked, but there's one he feels can't wait. “What happened to them? My...parents,” he says, averting his gaze to the floor where Dagoo sits expectantly. He sighs, leaning forward to scratch the dog behind his ears. He shouldn't feel guilty, referring to the people who chose to raise him in spite of the difficulties that came along with having a kid who could do things no one else could, and yet he feels a kinship to the people sitting beside him that he can't quite explain.

“They were buried in a cemetery not far from here. There was a small service. They were cared for,” Scully replies. She sees the surprise register in his eyes before he has a chance to lock it away.

“You guys went?” William asks. It's a nice gesture, but not one he'd have ever expected.

Mulder looks across the couch at Scully, studies the way she swallows hard and clutches the cross around her neck like a talisman, and coughs before speaking. “It was the right thing to do.”

It was, Scully knows, tamping down the tiniest pang of selfish jealousy she felt against the people who raised her son. By all accounts, he'd turned out okay, and shouldn't that count for something? “We could take you. Tomorrow, if you want,” she says, lowering her voice to just above a whisper. “We wouldn't have to stay. Or we could wait in the car? It’s up to you.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea? The last time I was here, the cops were after me. They think I had something to do with all this,” William replies. He doesn't tell them that each time he's passed by a police car since he's been gone he's felt his blood pressure kick up a few notches.

“We’ll take care of that,” Mulder tells him, although he's unsure of just how.

William shakes his head, indignant. “It doesn't matter what anyone thinks. I’m the reason they died. It's my fault.”

“You can't think that way,” Scully replies.

Before she or Mulder have a chance to say anything else, William launches himself off of the couch, marching over to the window and watching as the rain falls in buckets outside. “It is though. It's my fault. I wanted answers. I wanted to understand what's wrong with me, so I went looking. It's because of me they were killed,” he says, carding a hand through his dark locks. His breathing has grown heavy, and he knows he should calm down, but now that he's opened the proverbial bottle on his fears, he knows he can't just let it go. “Maybe coming here was a mistake. I don't want anyone else getting hurt because of me.”

“The men who shot them are at fault, not you,” Scully says, standing up slowly, but not edging any closer to him. She watches as he wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, a move that betrays the fear that's surely coursing through him. “William,” she calls his name, hoping for some sign that he's heard her, but he doesn't respond.

Mulder stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, and joins William at the window. Standing face to face they're basically the same height, which is both a moment of pride and a source of sadness, considering the last time he'd been this close to their son before this had all started. Beside him, William sniffles, and a flash of him as a newborn, scrunching up his nose while sleeping plays across his mind, unbidden. “Come on,” Mulder says, putting an arm around the younger man's shoulders and pushing him back towards the couch. “Sit back down. We'll figure this out together, okay? You don't have to worry about going through any of it alone.”

“That’s just it though, isn't it? It's my fault. I’m the one everyone should blame. I started poking around, started asking questions, and--” William stops, his voice wavering, turning to face Scully as she calls his name.

“William, come sit down. We can work through this,” she tells him, beckoning him towards her. If anyone is equipped to deal with the mess their son has been given, it's she and Mulder, but she knows that in order to help him she has to gain his trust. That idea stings like salt on an open and festering wound, the notion that her son might not already trust her.

William lowers his head and trudges back to the couch. He buries his face in his hands, pressing his palms so tight to his eyes he sees stars. “I’m fine. I’m sorry--”

“No, you're not,” Scully says, testing the waters by grasping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze, desperate to anchor him to the here and now. “You're not fine, and it wouldn't be practical to expect you to be. What you've gone through is a lot to process for anyone, let alone someone your age. But we’re here for you, and we’ll help you,” she continues, pulling at his shoulder a bit in hopes he'd sit up and look at her. “As much as you'll allow us.”

Her voice dips at the end, causing him to again shut his eyes and draw a breath in deep through his nose. The words she'd spoken while he tried so hard to pretend he was dead in the morgue have been rattling around in his head for weeks. He's pushed them to the periphery of his mind, saving them for quiet moments at rest stops and campgrounds and other places that don't really ask questions along his route, dissecting them only when the world around him was still and small and silent. But one thing in particular has haunted him like a phantom limb since long before everything was set in motion. “Why did you give me up?”

A hush descends upon them, and if it weren't for Dagoo softly snoring across the room, there's scarcely a sound to be heard. Without looking up, Scully is certain Mulder's eyes are locked on her and that he's ready to share the burden as he always has, but this is a cross for her to bear. “The answer to that question is more complicated than you might think. I’ll tell you everything you want to know, we both will--” she says, braving a look in Mulder's direction, confirming her suspicions when she sees him staring back at her. She clears her throat and hopes that words won't fail her when it counts.

“You said it was the hardest thing you’ve ever done,” William says, rolling his shoulders a few times and straightening his posture into a sitting poisition. He sniffles a little, trying to act like he wasn’t on the verge of crying seconds before. His tongue darts out, moistening chapped lips, and he continues to speak. “Why is that?”

Scully’s eyebrows shoot up until reality hits her. “Right. You heard that,” she replies, trying as hard as she can to not conjure the image of his face peering up at her from the body bag. She remembers the way she scooted the chair closer and how quickly the morgue became her confessional. She’d poured out everything she’d ever wanted to tell him, or the basics anyhow, never thinking for a second that she’d get a chance to delve into detail.

“You know that we’re FBI agents?” Mulder asks. He waits for William to nod and flickers his gaze to Scully long enough to see the relief written across her face. A lot of this is her story to tell, but he wants to help as best he can. “Before you were born, we’d managed to make some pretty powerful enemies. People who wanted to hurt us for trying to find out the truth,” he says, again looking over at Scully. They haven’t exactly discussed in the weeks since they’d seen William for the first time exactly what they’d tell him. He deserves the truth, that much they both know, but at the same time there are things he figures their son should be spared from. “Shortly before you were born, it became clear that we couldn’t carry on with status quo. We had to find a safer way of doing things.”

The fact Mulder disappeared for months after William was born is something he might need or want to know, but Scully wants to spare them both opening up that particular wound for now, and so she clears her throat, signaling to Mulder that she wants to jump in. “William, what you can do...making people see things? You know by now there are people out there who want that ability, or who’d like to investigate you and others out there who might share that same ability. When you were a baby--” Scully stops, shaking her head as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, pressing so hard she begins to taste blood. She looks down at her hands and notes the crescent shaped marks her nails have left in her palms.

“Was I really like that as a baby?” William asks, almost feeling guilty at the hint of excitement in his voice. This is a painful memory for her, he knows it is, but the door to his past has been opened and he can’t help wanting to push it even more.

“You moved the mobile over your crib,” Mulder chimes in, wishing not for the first time that he’d been there to see it happen.

“What?” William asks, raising an eyebrow. He focuses his eyes on the first inanimate object he can find, the water bottle he’d placed on the table, as if staring at it would possibly do anything at all. For a second he thinks he sees tiny ripples in the water, but before he knows if it’s real or just in his head, he hears Scully speak up beside him.

“I realized you weren’t safe, not in the way you deserved to be,” she says, at last reaching the part of the story she knew she couldn’t avoid. She grips one of the throw pillows, pressing her fingers into the fabric because at the moment she needs something to do with her hands. “At the time, there didn’t appear to be a better choice. Giving you up for adoption was the safest option. It meant you’d have a home, you’d have parents who could give you a normal life,” she says, her voice growing hoarse. A safe home and a good life is all she’s ever wanted for her son, and now that he’s back in her life, she’s hoping she--and Mulder--can give him just that, as best as they can.

William shakes his head. He appreciates the sentiment, and he respects how much it must hurt her to relive the past, but he also knows what his own life has been like. “I made my girlfriends think they were monsters. They tried to hurt each other because of me. I’d hardly call that normal.”

Mulder chuckles, surprising even himself. “Listen, about that. Girlfriends?” he asks, putting reference on the last word. “And hey, you made a mistake. Everyone does. It’s part of growing up.”

William shrugs, figuring that he’s right. But he closes his eyes and he thinks of Sarah and Bri, and how close he’d come to making more of a mess of the situation than he already has. He thinks of the other things he’s seen and of the future he knows can’t be that far off. “The virus. What if we can’t stop it?”

The abrupt change of topic startles Scully nearly as much as his use of the word ‘we’. His grouping himself with them has to mean something, though she isn’t certain yet of just what. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? I do need to worry about it,” William says. He opens his mouth and closes it again, afraid of voicing the fears he has but knowing if he doesn’t there’s a chance they might not understand. “You’ve seen the things I have. I don’t know why it is that I can see them, or how I guess. But I can. I can’t control when or what or why, I just do. They’re flashes sometimes, and other times it’s more than that. For so long I thought I was crazy,” he says. The laugh that falls from his lips is watery as he glances back and forth between them. “But I’m not?”

“Scully and I? We’re sort of experts on the whole crazy thing. And no, William, you’re not,” Mulder replies, wanting desperately to reassure him. While he hasn’t seen the visions himself and while he’s not sure as to why he hasn’t seen them, he’s heard enough about them from Scully to know just how scary it might be if they’re given the chance to become reality without anyone doing something to stop it. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”

William nods, figuring this is true, even if he doesn’t know just how. “I came here because it’s coming. I know it is, and I don’t know if I can do anything to stop it. But if I can, I want to try. Is that okay?” he asks, stifling a yawn against the back of his hand. If the highway driving had made him weary, peeling back the layers of the past has made it even worse.

“Of course it’s okay,” Scully replies, and though she knows it’d embarrass him if he knew, it warms her heart the way he feigns not being tired. “Hey,” she says, nudging his side. “It’s late. Early actually,” she says, not even needing to look at a clock to know it’s true. Outside the window she can see the briefest hint of light bleed into the sky, though everything is mostly still gray. The rain seems to have stopped for now, but she knows it’s far from over. “There’s a room upstairs if you’d like to rest for a few hours. Or this couch pulls out. We can get some sheets from the closet. If you wanted.”

There’s a vulnerability to her voice that almost hurts him. William knows she’s trying, whether any of them feel equipped to do so or not. A tiny part of him wants to say no and return to his original plan to just sleep in the car. But the house is warm and they’re both being so nice, and honestly he’s been awake for more hours than he can count, and so he agrees. “Yeah. That’d be cool, I guess.”

Scully sighs in relief, not wanting to admit to herself let alone anyone else that for the seconds between her offer and his acceptance she couldn’t bring herself to breathe. It’s a temporary stay on what she’s sure to be a lengthy conversation. Or series of conversations, she thinks, considering how much is to be done in the coming days and weeks. She has the two people who mean the most to her in the world under the same roof, alive and well for the first time in more years than she’d care to count, and she’s going to do everything she can to keep it that way.

As she stands and points in the direction of the stairs, she locks eyes with Mulder, anchored as ever by his presence. She turns her attention to William, taking a guess at his comfort level, and hoping she’s not wrong as she loops her arm around his waist in an awkward embrace. “Come on,” she says, relieved when instead of pulling away he echoes her movements. “I’ll show you the way.”


End file.
